The Western Edges
by unnafraher
Summary: Once upon a time there was an empire in the Atlantic, made up of several islands all unique and profoundly connected. Norway, in a way, was their father, or at the very least a father figure. Once upon a time, he had a golden age. .:Drabble collection:.
1. Norway 2009

All right! This is the beginning of a series about Norway and those who once upon a time made up the Norwegian empire along the Atlantic rim. There will be: Norway, Greenland, Iceland, Faeroes, the Isle of Man, and possibly the Orkneys and the Hebrides. Most of these places are, obviously, OCs.

* * *

><p>It is a standard, beautiful spring day in Oslo.<p>

The city, free from winter's quiet white grip, is becoming greener every day. And all the green is especially vivid this day, after a day of good rain come up from the Baltic.

Norway is observing this renewed life from the lobby of the parliament building. The lawn is green, very green, like chlorophyll is the new Norwegian export. It's a treat for the eyes after hours of the parliament's sea of beige carpets. Several citizens have laid out towels and blankets to sit on. Two women are luxuriating in the sun, a third is watching a child—probably her own—flying a kite on a breeze none of them apparently feel. A couple of other people are merely hanging around but still on the grass. A single person is sitting between one of the lion statue's paws, with ear buds in and head shaking to a private beat.

Norway wonders about how dry the ground really is at this point.

Behind him some important men and women are talking together, one of them laughing now and then. Yes, he knew that laugh. It has to be Ødegaard. A small brown haired women, who wears a strange amount of eye shadow and throws her head back when she laughs at anything a man says. A woman of forty-one, who is going on forty-two and as of yet childless. An example of a human ticking clock Norway has seen over and over again but never had to understand, really.

Someone comes up behind Norway. The person stops short at an obviously respectable distance. "Mr. Wegerland" says the person, not quite requesting attention.

Norway—who has recently changed his name to something a bit more rustic—turns around and gives the slightest of acknowledgments, a raised brow.

"This is for you. It arrived when you were in the meeting," the person, who is a young man, says and holds forth an envelope of moderately rich paper. Norway gives the envelope a quick glance. The return address is an address in the Faroe Islands.

Norway then takes the envelope and says, "thanks".

He looks at the envelope again, this time for a moment longer. He sees the handwriting that must be Faeroe's, with the tell-tale curly letters she has only recently adopted in order to make her printing more impressive. Cursive is, as always, something somehow remaining elusive to her.

The stamps show various dramatic scenes in the Faeroese nature: the Witch's finger, cliffs that plunge without a hesitation into the sea.

Norway takes the letter and carefully puts it into his briefcase. He then returns to looking at the green lawn, for a while, letting the letter and what he suspects are its probable contents slip from his mind for a few minutes. He has just come from a political meeting—with things to sign, ideas to listen to, people to interact with, all in addition to dealing with the whole damned process of getting anything done.

He will get to her letter, and of course he will answer it with sound, prudent advice. But he will answer it after he has gotten home and done something else. The only things Faeroes writes to him about these days is national politics and Denmark, two things which he does not always feel up to dealing with right away.

For a moment he joins the crowd of talking people.

"Good job, Mr. Wegerland."

"Yeah. You too."

After the schmoozing and invitations to dinners, they leave the building.

Norway returns to the window.

Outside the little girl is struggling to get her kite up by herself. She will not accept help from the adult practically hovering over her. She seems to be yelling at the adult, snapping and fighting off all advice and aid. But then a second kid comes—what looks like her brother, same hair and posture—from nowhere, and a third kids who looks a lot less like her, and eventually together they manage to get it up in the air.

The kite is flying above the building, and Norway imagines the view from outside, the white kite and its blue, whipping tail near the swallow-tailed Norwegian flag. What a sight it must be on this cloudless day.


	2. The Faeroe Islands 2009

It is Wednesday, but when Faeroes gets up today she does not think at all about the All Father like she would have done long ago. Centuries ago, when everything was so much younger.

Outside the sun has still not risen, won't for a few hours yet. So she turns on a ceiling light as she stumbles through one doorway into her small bathroom. A quick glance at the mirror shows her her dishevelled state—wrinkled purple pyjamas top, tufts of ashen hair sticking out at whimsical angles. She looks like a teenaged girl who has overslept at least ten minutes on a school day.

Her house is located in Tórshavn, the capital city of Faeroe Islands and what is considered town to most outsiders. It is a nice city. Or an equally nice town. Its authentic and bright with the charming red and yellow houses near the harbour. Some of them even have sod roofs.

The wind is audible over the running tap.

Eventually Faeroes wanders into her kitchen and gazes out the darkened window above the sink. There is of course not much to see; the darkness makes everything feel outside close, or maybe like there is nothing out there at all to be close to. But it's so hard to tell with the wind. Is something ramming against the house? Is there a great beast out there howling in pain? Or perhaps this beast is morning?

Thinking about this last possibility makes Faeroes smile a little. Not because the thought is happy but rather because her imagination is off. Bringing a hand to her neck, she imagines a dragon mamma missing its stolen young.

Red, big, scaly, and with massive, claws, this dragon could be quite dangerous.

But it is too ravaged by grief to move, much less remember that it has the resources to challenge the world until it gives her back her baby.

Faroes frowns .

Then she remembers a time with Norway, back when she really was a young child, mentally and just not physically. He had found a baby dragon once whom must have lost its mother because it seemed so disheartened. It had not at all behaved like Faroes thought it would, after hearing all those stories about vicious beasts which Norway told. Instead the dragon would climb into her or Norway's lap—later Iceland's, when he was found—make a sound that could have been whimpering, and then close its dizzyingly golden eyes. It never had used its black and silver wings. Though when it stretched its claws she found enough reason to be both terrified of and drawn to the creature.

Faroes is not sure what had happened to the dragon. She wonders if her memories might be unclear on this point—but, no, she is sure that she simply never learnt the dragon's fate.

This is a little disheartening. Her brow and nose wrinkle, she looks like she is going to sneeze.

And then has an idea.

She sits down to write a letter to her brother Norway. She asks about the dragon, what happened to it, and she writes a paragraph about the weather using what she thinks are colourful phrases—grey as a white sheep's belly on a clouded day, wind that howls like a drunk who has stubbed his toe.

To round it off and justify the letter she also writes for some political advice. Her brother is not a particularly busy country, but he is a particularly pragmatic country under his patina of rustic simplicity. Which actually do go hand in hand, pragmatism and being rural, though he is much more cunning and intelligentsia-esque than the common caricature of a farmer one might imagine.

This is why she writes:

_Norway,_

_Recently Denmark has asked my people to vote in a referendum deciding if females might be officially considered in the succession line._

_Isn't Marte II already queen?_

_My problem is that some of the politicians here say it symbolically threatens Faeroese home rule. Even though, as a part of Denmark, we are also under his monarchy. _

_How come kings and queens were always so easy for you?_

_Please tell me what you think the best way to see and deal with this would be. _

_With love and regards,_

_Faeroes_

Writing this helps. She is happier, it is now breakfast time, and she knows Norway will get this letter. For an old soul like him it is harder to ignore letters than texts and emails.

And she knows that there is a part of him which loves the simple joy of receiving a letter. Of receiving a personal letter you know can't possibly contain any bad news, or else the sender would have sent a fax or telegraph instead, something more arresting than a piece of paper making a leisurely journey over the sea.


	3. Iceland 2009

Iceland is not sure how to respond to this letter, this letter he got from Faeroes and written with utter earnestness. As far as he remembers it, there was no such dragon, much less does he remember said dragon's name.

Certainly Norway had found a dragon at some point—if anyone would've, it would have been him, who believed in dragons more actively than the rest of them. A black dragon? If anyone would remember its name, it would be his brother Norway.

Faeroes should've written Norway, Iceland thinks as he leans overs a wind-weathered fence. For one thing, his brother loves getting letters, which are really more of a hassle than a simple e-mail. Flakes of paint stick to his jacket and sleeves. He is close to an old church for the most part abandoned, with lopsided graves in the cemetery and windows protected by plywood. Weeds and the brush, which is low, are aloud apparently to grow as they will.

Mr. Puffin is on his shoulder, and nearby two sheep graze contently, uninterested in Iceland's presence.

The sky is overcast.

Still, how—he would only use this word with himself—_cool_ would it be if there had had been such a dragon? From Faeroes' description, it was something of exquisite beauty: sleek black, claws like semi-precious gemstones and eyes as bright as lightened rubies, with fine, gossamer wings spread with a slightly reflective membrane. The scales, too, had had an iridescent property not unlike oil.

Iceland, pausing from his thought, leans over the fence a bit more, so that it touches his solar plexus. It is cool even through the layers of his shirts and jackets.

Then he gets onto his feet. It is certain that at some point Norway had found dragons and shown them to him and his sister Faeroes, because now that he thinks about it he remembers seeing the dragons before, not the terrifying ones in the wild, but the younger and or smaller ones, less frightening because they had been brought by his brother. That seemed to make them contained somehow, like Norway's responsibility for the creator protected them from it absolutely. If Iceland remembers correctly, it also helped a little that he had never brought an adult one to show them.

Had he not wished to expose Iceland and Faeroes to that danger?

"I could've handled it," Iceland mutters to himself because he is alone—can be sure that he is alone because he has walked out all this way. He is closer to the church and the sheep which continue to remain unconcerned by him.

Iceland's brow is furrowed; his expression is somewhere between frustration and concentration.

Yes, absolutely he could've handled being in the presence of an adult dragon! Iceland had been young, yes, but certainly not a child. As a country he had lived many more years than a human by that point, the first time Norway showed him a dragon, so he hadn't technically been a child at all.

And now he is a very, very old soul.

Mr. Puffin is not particularly concerned for his owner, even if Iceland looks to be in pain, has looked that way for several minutes now. He is curious. Obviously Iceland must be thinking about something particularly embarrassing. He's muttered to himself, even—and there are the clenched fists as he slowly makes his way towards the dilapidated chapel everyone knows is haunted.

So Mr. Puffin asks, "Oi, Ice, what're ya thinking about? Something juicy?"

"It's not of your business."

"Tell me, buddy!"

"No," Iceland says, without looking at his shoulder where the puffin is perched.

"You're looking really weird right now! The family resemblance with that guy is particularly strong now."

At that, Iceland looks at his puffin; he bristles.

Any comparison at all to his older brother Norway is of course mortifying, so profoundly that the embarrassment can and often does immobilise him.

"I'm nothing like him!"

"Yes, ya're. You're a lot like him," the puffin says, and maybe he is goading Iceland a little.

Iceland is in a passionate fit now—he raises his foot like he is going to take a step forward, distance himself from Norway who really could be standing behind him, then he stomps his foot down and raises his shoulders.

"Not at all! I wouldn't endanger children like he did! And anyways, dragons aren't that impressive. I don't like that kind of thing anyway."

Mr. Puffin makes another comment and they quarrel for a while longer, but nothing else is really said. The whole time the sheep continue to graze, possessing loads more dignity than the red-faced boy who argues with his puffin.

Xxx

_Nore –_

_Do you remember a black dragon you once showed Faeroes and me? She asked me about it, and if I remembered the name._

_I don't remember a dragon. I don't know about this kind of thing. I've included her letter in this one._

_Also, please quit leaving blank voicemails on my phone. I don't know if you're butt-dialing me, but it is really weird._

_Iceland_

Xxx

_Fæ—_

_Please don't ask me about dragons. I don't remember anything like that._

_If it ever happened, Norway would know about it, not me. You know how he is._

_Iceland_


	4. The Faeroes Islands 2010

Iceland is in town to see some puffins. Although he won't admit, he's mostly here on account of his puffin, his constant companion and questionable pet, who may or may not be on the prowl for a mate. Or at least a hook-up.

This is a trip Iceland makes every year. Faeroes knows it, and so she is on the bus which will arrive in Fuglafjørður a few hours after Iceland has arrived there by ferry from one of the northern islands. She checks into a self-catering room, a nice homey one owned by the city's tourism office, before heading off to the hostel a few kilometers out of town.

She figures Iceland has had enough time to settle in.

Another bus ride, and she's at the hostel.

The man at reception waves at her as she walks in and she waves back, smiling prettily. He smiles back because he recognises her and knows why she is here.

"Good day, Jógvan!" she says.

She's still smiling when she walks in on her little brother who's standing slightly bored in front of a stove. Mr. Puffin is sitting on the kitchen's table browsing a newspaper, apparently actually reading it because he's turning the page with his claw as Faeroes walks in.

"Hey, Ice!" she says and walks immediately over to her brother so she can give him a hug. Despite his starting and the sizzling pan near him, she throws an arm around his shoulders and pulls him close for a moment—a greeting so essentially Danish that Iceland has been subjected to it by both Faeroes _and_ Denmark.

Cringing, he drags himself and his sister away from the stove. "Fæ, pay attention! That's really dangerous."

"I know, I know! Responsible adults look out for the stove," she says a she lets him go. She looks at him now, having to tilt her head up a bit because Iceland is half a head taller. "But don't worry, I turned the stove off before I left the house."

Iceland looks at her.

Mr. Puffin, pinged by the arrival of a female, is suddenly on the edge of the table and looking at Faeroes too. It is no great family secret that from time to time he has tried to put moves on her. Faeroes isn't especially pretty, but there always has been—well, something that he's apparently seen. Also, Faeroes is Iceland's sister; she's something special, then, something like a challenge with a prize to be won if he keeps trying. These feelings the puffin has for her are, of course, not so weird for the Nordic family because they know of some nations who really do love animals, that some nations knows some truly human animals.

Luckily, puffins' body language is vastly different than a human's.

"Hey, Sweet Cakes," Mr. Puffin says.

Faeroes smiles a touch, but does not look at the puffin.

Iceland says, "Good, it'd be your house that'd burn down, and a whole bunch of others, probably."

"Mm. It really hasn't been raining that much lately."

"That's surprising."

"I know," Faeroes says and tilts her head a bit. Her arms are crossed. "I wonder if there's a big storm coming."

"There better not be!" Mr Puffin says, perhaps sounding slightly desperate, because his personal interests really could be hurt.

Faeroes is smiling again, and she's looking at the puffin. "Well, we'll see. I certainly hope it doesn't storm."

Outside they can hear the wind. Iceland eventually makes his way back to the stove to finish dinner, and Faeroes pulls a chair up to the table. She begins to absently leaf through the newspaper's pages. Mr Puffin, far from being put out at the marauder taking his paper, sits by Faeroes' arm, slowly gets closer.

"How long're ya here for, Ice?"

"A while."

"A while?"

"I don't know," he says over the sounds of his dinner cooking. "Until I'm done. And there aren't flights every day, and it's hard to tell if there will be flights when there are supposed to be flights—"

"Yeah, because of the weather. Hey, ya, yer place is pretty windy too."

Faeroes looks over her shoulder to see Iceland shrug.

"I know. "

"Think of it as a real vacation! Ya've got to just relax and wait til ya can leave."

By know Mr. Puffin is brushing Faeroes' arm with his wing.

"We'll be here for a while, Sweetie."

"Is that so?" Faeroes, looking down at her arm, sounds privately amused as she says it.

xxx

It does storm.

Faeroes ends up moving from her room in town out to the hostel, a move which is met with approval all around. Iceland is glad to save on any transportation cost ( as if any kind of transportation will run in this wind ), the hostel is glad for the business, and Mr. Puffin is glad for himself.

For the night of the storm, Iceland, Faeroes, and Mr Puffin end up staying away from the rest of the hostel. The majority of the others are foreigners—that means they've alcohol that they've brought with them, it means that they are drinking. Faeroes doesn't drink because she is still not comfortable with it; there are many of her people who are still not comfortable with even social drinking. Iceland doesn't drink all that often because he's a light weight.

Also he doesn't want his pet trying to get smashed.

So they play Danish monopoly. They build wind turbines, and once Iceland is forced to go to Christiania Freetown. It's much less interesting in monopoly, that place, because he cannot get high. This is something he may or may not lament. Eventually they get bored of trying to figure out who has more money, so Faeroes begins to sing.

It is not a soft sound. It is a strong and haunting one. Because of the ocean crashing on her land there is a violence in the undertones—there's some dissonance, and some of her chords crash together.

Mr. Puffin tries to clap when she does.

"Thank you," says Faeroes smiling down at him, though she does not grant his request for an autograph. "But Ice should sing now, don't ya think?"

"No way, who wants hear a dude sing when we can hear you, Sweetie?"

"I do!"

She looks at Iceland. Iceland is looking pale, absolutely opposed to the idea before he can verbally refuse.

"Aaah, come on Ice, no-one here will judge ya."

Iceland glimpses briefly at his puffin, as if to say, _he will_. "Tell us a story instead."

"Any kind?"

"One with lots of sexy chicks!" Mr Puffin says.

"Any kind," Iceland says, glaring at his puffin before moving to clean up the monopoly board. His fingers brush again the game's box where the word _KØBENHAVN _stands. There are no puffins there; the weather is probably much better there, Iceland thinks.

"Well." Faeroes begins to put the cards into clean, straight stacks. She is thinking. _What is a good story, for now?_ She thinks of storms, of the sea, of tales of seafaring men so familiar to them both. She also begins to think about familiar things, as she reads the names of several places in Denmark's capital. "Have I told ya about Rádni í Lon before?"

"No," Iceland says. He looks up at his sister, then folds up the board.

"Ok. I'll tell you that."

And they finish putting away the game before she begins. Iceland, partially unconsciously, sits slouching more than is usual for him so that he can get cozy for story time. Faeroes sits a little straighter, as the storyteller.

"Well, Rádni lived during the Black Plague." She pauses, lets this name and all that it means sink in—the images of suffering, death, abandoned farms, the pains of their people they felt during those times. There's a collective silence for a good few seconds. "He owned a simple wooden boat, and he would brave the sea all of the time to get goods from Norway to here."

Iceland looks at her. He's leaning in towards her.

"Well, one time when he was coming over, he dropped something into the sea. A big chunk of amber! Upset, he looked over the edge of his boat, and he kept looking over long enough to not see a great wave coming for him. The wave capsized him in a second.

"He didn't die, though. For you see, this chunk of amber had caught the attention of a mermaid who had been torn from her home by a vicious sea current. It had distracted her from her frantic search for the right way home, and then she saw the fisherman there, sinking and dying and drowning..."

"And so he married her, when she saved him," Iceland says. He's leaning on the table, his chin in his hands.

"Pretty much."

"Was the mermaid pretty?" Mr Puffin asks. "As pretty as ya, Sweetie?"

"Oh no, she was way sexier than me."

For a moment, there is silence. Iceland and Faeroes look at each other, Mr Puffin observes their looking.

"It's my turn to tell a story now," Iceland says.


End file.
